


Engine

by bakerst



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Mystery, Some Fluff, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-17
Updated: 2014-08-01
Packaged: 2018-02-09 04:58:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1969860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bakerst/pseuds/bakerst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock must investigate an incredibly complex murder. This time, however, Sherlock has emotional baggage to deal with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I've decided to get my butt back up and be a decent writer. Sorry for the huge gap.

The smell of burned chemicals wafted in the room, and Sherlock sat in the middle of it all, a puzzled expression on his face, when the phone rang. Sherlock dropped his tweezers onto the rug and eagerly spoke into the reciever, "Any new news on the suicide?"

Greg Lestrade, an esteemed DI inspector at Scotland Yard, had been having a long day. He'd had to deal with a hysterical murder victim this morning and his donuts weren't agreeing with him. "Sherlock, I honestly don't know-

"Oh my GOD, Lestrade. We all know it was the maid. All the evidence-" Sherlock paused for dramactic effect, "is _there_! What more do they need?"

"Sherlock, that's not why I called you. I have some bad news."

"All your news is bad news." Sherlock grumbled.

"John isn't in Scotland, Sherlock."

"What do you mean, he's not in Scotland." 

"I mean, he's missing. The boss asked me to employ you on the case."

"Um, well, Lestrade," Sherlock stuttered. He stopped, and then went on, "I-I'll take it."

"Good man," Lestrade hung up.

Sherlock sat in the leather seat, absolutely quiet. He didn't know what he was feeling, was it anger, perhaps, or sadness? It was neither, Sherlock thought, I've felt both and they're nothing like this. It felt as if the bottom of his stomach had vanished into thin air. Shock, he decided. He certainly wasn't expecting this. This is strange; for nothing ever takes Sherlock by surprise. Fact is, Sherlock doesn't quite know what it means to be surprised. The smell of burning metal suddenly woke Sherlock out of his reverie. He dashed to his microscope, only to find a small slide in the fireplace below it. Sherlock reached for his pliers and dipped the slide in water. When he extracted it, fiery words were etched upon it:

_Miss me? I hope you liked my surprise-Moriarty_


	2. (Kinda, Sorta) On The Hunt

Sherlock stepped out into the wintery London air, his heart pounding. John was gone. Sherlock never lost John. _This couldn't be happening._ Sherlock hiked his way up the stairs to Scotland Yard and knocked on the heavy, large oak doors. He saw his breath come in short, white pants out of his mouth.

"Sherlock? Thank God you're here," whispered the small, flightly helper. "It's a mess, a right catastrophe. They can't figure it out, not a clue, no!"

Sherlock gritted his teeth and mumbled, "That's my job, Wilkins."

Sherlock was certainly not in the mood for small talk. He threw open the door to Lestrade's office to find the inspector eating a pink donut with his feet on the desk, and there was sprinkles all over his face. "Ah, Sherlock, it's you," said Lestrade, wiping his pink hands on his jacket (elicting a cry of "UGH!" and a disdainful frown) "We've got quite the case today. You should _love_ it." 

"I assure you, Lestrade, I truly care for the outcome of this case."

"Right you are. Now here are the files-" Lestrade paused to dump some folders and small papers into Sherlock's lap, "and pieces of evidence. Now, off you go! Work your magic!"

~~~~~~~~

Sherlock didn't like Lestrade's attitude toward him, but as he left with the files under his long black trench coat, he realized that he actually was a bit dependent on Lestrade now. At least for the time being.

Sherlock opened the door and cast the files and his coat onto the coffee table. He then flopped into his chair by the fireplace  and groaned rather loudly. Sherlock drummed his fingertips against the worn sides of the chair impatiently. He figured he'd best do something before he got rather bored. Stretching his arms, he rose and strode over to the teapot and began to brew some tea, when a shining piece of metal caught his eye. He abandoned the tea and picked up the object, turning it around in his hands to admire its many facets. It's a diamond, Sherlock thought, What is a diamond doing here? The teapot suddenly began to screech and Sherlock ran to the kettle, but tea was already spraying around the kitchen. In Sherlock's hurry, the diamond fell between the cracks of the floorboards. "Shit," Sherlock whispered. He raced to the teapot and poured it into the sink, steam erupted from its insides. Sherlock stretched his long hand through the boards and grasped the diamond, finding right underneath it a gold base ring with the initials "J.H.W + W.S.S.H." etched into the inner piece of the band.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *FORESHADOWS AGGRESSIVELY*


	3. Alternate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unfinished, sorry! i have to leave for lunch

Sherlock knew what those initials stood for. W.S.S.H. stood for his own name, William Sherlock Scott Holmes. However, he couldn't figure out what the H in J.W.H. meant. Sherlock dashed to his files,


End file.
